♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by Rod Cayenne, originally in two parts but published as a complete story for the first time. Erotica for over 18s only!

Part One:

“Well lads, this is very serious. Radio piracy is an offence under the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act, 1967. You could all be going down for this!”

The three 21-year-olds surveyed their surroundings. Their poky little studio with the twin turntables, and a pile of 45s. The pegboard on the walls, with egg boxes to provide some acoustic insulation. A valve amplifier and a rudimentary transmitter.

Sergeant Westlea and his two constables examined the pirate treasure with some disdain. The Sergeant picked up a Deep Purple single and snapped it in half.

“Oops! Well, that’s forever hushed!” laughed the Sergeant. “Fortunately for you three, I am under strict instructions not to arrest you straight away. If you know what’s good for you, you will accompany us to the police station where the Chief Superintendent wishes to interview you. Why he is so interested in small fry like you, I have no idea. The van’s outside, I suggest you all get in it before I change my mind and cuff the lot of you.”

Soon Bill, James and Hugh found themselves in the plush surroundings of the office of Chief Superintendent Walker. All three were sat in front of his large oak desk. He was reading the case file silently. Now and then, he would look over his half-moon spectacles, gazing at the three miscreants. He puffed on a large Churchillian cigar.

“Well, gentlemen. It’s taken us three years to track you down. You have led us a merry dance. A dance to the music of time, you might say! During this time, I have listened to your station a lot on my trusty Roberts. I must say I have enjoyed a lot of your output. Particularly that Cream bootleg you keep playing.”

To the three friends, this was the first sign of any relief from their predicament.

“I have studied the case file, and I must warn you that a judge might impose custodial sentences. This is really a most, most grave offence in terms of the law. However, here at the station, we tend to view this as a less serious offence. I see from our research that you are all ex-pupils of St. Stephens…”

“Yes Sir!” said James, who was evidently the leader of the pirate gang.

All three shook their heads.

“Mmmm. Just as I suspected. Now, listen to me! As a prefect I used to cane naughty lads such as yourselves, back then. It seems to me that an unofficial caning could be just what you lads need, instead of a spell in prison. Something to wake your ideas up! Well, lads?”

James spoke up, “If you’re suggesting we take a caning, I’m sure all three of us would be happy to accept that, Sir!” The other two nodded enthusiastically.

James was thinking how much he hated the cane. In the past, Bill hadn’t found the cane too bad if he felt he’d deserved it. Hugh however, had a masochistic streak and loved being caned. The Chief Superintendent was also very fond of the cane…

“Good. Some common sense from you three at last. I was thinking of six of the best. Six strokes for each one of the years you evaded us.”

The lads gasped. Eighteen strokes each!

“Don’t worry lads. I was thinking of three sessions of six strokes each, say a week apart. Just to drive the lesson home. On the bare, of course.”

James spoke up again, “Of course. Yes Sir, that seems very reasonable in the circumstances.”

“Now there is one problem. My right arm is recovering from an injury sustained just recently. I can’t cane you myself, although I feel I must witness your punishments. Which leaves me with a couple of alternatives. I could ask Sergeant Westlea…”

“We don’t like him, Sir. He deliberately snapped one of our records!”

“Not the Cream bootleg, I hope!” exclaimed the Chief Superintendent.

“No, no it was a 45 of ‘Hush’ by Deep Purple,” said Bill.

“One of my favourites!” said the Chief, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t trust the brute not to snap my cane then, can I? It’s my last one. Which brings me to the other alternative. Mrs Walker!”

“Your wife, Sir?”

“Yes, my wife. She’s an experienced caner. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, Sir. Not really, but bare bottom Sir?” asked James.

“Good point, boy. I’ll have to ask her how she feels about that. She might want you to keep your underwear on. In which case, perhaps more strokes might be appropriate.”

“Oh, Sir!” said James, the one who feared the cane the most.

“Well, Gents. Maybe we’ll leave it at six each session. I’m a reasonable man and Mrs Walker will see reason too. It will hurt you, but it won’t kill you. Have we got a deal? Smith?”

James nodded, “Yes Sir, thank you.”

“Williams?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Prentice?”

“Yes, yes thank you.”

“Very good. I want you all to call around to my house on Friday evening. Well after ‘The Archers’. Say eight o’clock. Here’s the address.”

The three lads trooped out of the station with mixed feelings. They passed Sergeant Westlea, who looked astonished to see them walking free without so much as a caution.

Back in the office, the Chief Superintendent leant back in his leather chair. Yes, this would be a most gratifying spectacle. Three naked, prime rumps being caned by his disciplinarian wife. Something for the weekend! In bed that night he shared his wicked plan with his wife. She mounted him eagerly and came heavily as he described his plans in detail.

“Well Charles, you have really excelled yourself this time. I’m almost tempted to cane you now as a reward!”

“Thank you darling, but don’t you think you’d be better off resting and waiting for the weekend?”

“Well no, my arm’s not the one that’s weak at the moment is it? Be a dear and fetch the cane…”

Despite the hot lovemaking he had just enjoyed, Charles Walker was regretting mentioning his plan. His wife switched on the bedside lamp and took the cane from him.

“No, I don’t think so, love,” he got up from his submissive position, semi-erect, “the school might be a better bet. They still use the cane at St Stephens…”

Part two:

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Chief Superintendent Walker.

“I’ve been at your old school. I had a devil of a job persuading the headmaster to part with these canes, although he had at least two dozen in stock.”

“Why was he so reluctant to give you them? I’d have expected him to have responded favourably to our unofficial law and order campaign.”

“Well, it was my fault in a way. I let slip that there was no caning at my secondary school. So then he said he was only happy to hand over the canes to someone who knew what the cane was like…”

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Well, it was difficult Sir. I didn’t want to disappoint you by returning empty-handed. So I suggested he gave me a few strokes there and then.”

“You did what?”

“I took six of the best, Sir. So that you wouldn’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“I do Sir! My arse is throbbing like mad.”

“He caned a uniformed officer?”

“Not exactly uniformed, Sir! I had it bare bottom!”

“Well, it’s the only way…”

“Yes, that’s what he said too, Sir. Must be a Saint Stephens thing.”

“Quite so, quite so.”

“I’m really sore!”

“Of course you are! Still, it’s no more than you deserve. I’ve been disappointed in your behaviour lately, Westlea. Snapping that record at the pirate station was the last straw!”

“But Sir, those hippy lads have broken the law. They ought to be banged up and have all their equipment and records confiscated.”

“No, no. You’re wrong on two counts there, Westlea. I am the law around here, and I have decided that the offence was not too serious. The lads will be caned instead, but not here. You will replace the record you destroyed, is that clear?”

“But Sir, it’s not fair!”

“The law never is fair, Westlea. You have a lot to learn. I’ll be taking you under my wing, so that I can keep an eye on you. Now about these canes…”

“Yes, Sir?”

“One will remain here at the station. For unofficial punishments and to keep delinquent constables and sergeants in line. The other will go to my house, as that’s where those boys will be thrashed. Now, we seem to have a junior and a senior cane here. Which was used on you?”

“I’m not sure, Sir.”

“Only one way to find out then. Show me the marks!”

“Sir?”

The Sergeant undid his thick black leather belt, and let his trousers fall to the ground. His white Jockeys followed.

“Wow! Those look bad, Westlea!”

“They certainly hurt badly, Sir!”

“I’m not sure that they were done with either of these canes.”

“Well, I couldn’t really see, Sir. I was bent over his caning stool, at the time. Do you think I should have him for assault or GBH?”

“No, that wouldn’t be advisable. Just think what the press could make of it.”

“Yes, you’re right of course, Sir.”

“Yes I am. Now keep still a moment. I need to check those ridges.”

And so it was that Sergeant Westlea had his naked bottom felt all over by Charles the Chief Superintendent.

“Oh, Sir!”

“Shut up, Westlea. You’ll live. Now, pull your trousers up. Tomorrow you will go to the record shop and order a replacement copy of that record. Here are the details. No messing about now. You will give the record to me. Don’t let me down or it’ll be the cane for you!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Their relationship had changed forever.

________________)

(________________

“Where the hell have you been?” Lynn demanded as Charles came through the front door, cane in hand.

“Getting this cane, of course!”

“Those boys will be here in less than an hour. I’ve hardly got time to fit your caning in first!”

“Eh?”

“We are going to redo your eighteen strokes before the boys get here. After all, I need some practice with this new cane. Into the front room, now!”

Charles was glad he’d chosen the junior cane to bring home. It would sting like the blazes, but neither he nor the radio pirates would be badly bruised. However, the police staff back at the station might benefit from the biting caress of the senior cane!

In the front room, Lynn had arranged the room around a chair for her victims to bend over. She pointed at the chair with her cane and Charles meekly climbed onto it, lowering his uniform trousers and pants ready for a serious thrashing. Once again, his meaty, hairy cheeks were offered submissively to his wife.

SWISH-CRACK! It hurt, it really hurt!

SWISH-CRACK! It was a damn fine cane.

SWISH-CRACK! She smiled.

SWISH-CRACK! He grimaced.

SWISH-CRACK! It stung like only a cane could.

SWISH-CRACK! She was loving every minute.

“Let’s stop for a minute, Charles. Tell me a little bit more about these boys.”

“Well, they’re all 21-year-olds. One of them’s a bit tubby, but should be a nice target for your cane. I want to watch, of course.”

“Do I know any of them, or their parents?”

“No, I don’t think so. They all arrived as the town and school expanded. All from down the road in London, I think. All ex-GLC pupils. All no strangers to the cane, at least when they were at St. Stephens.”

“This is only a junior cane, though Charles. I was hoping for something a bit firmer.”

“Yes, sorry, Westlea let me down a bit. I’ll have to visit the school again myself. And not just for old times sake.”

“Bend it a bit more Charles. These will be extra hard ones.”

SWISH-CRACK! She wasn’t joking!

SWISH-CRACK! That cane could pack quite a punch, even for a junior.

SWISH-CRACK! “Aaargh!” Suddenly Charles had found his voice.

SWISH-CRACK! “Owww!”

SWISH-CRACK! “Shut up, Charles. Unless you want extras?”

SWISH-CRACK! He was silent, but his bottom was stinging terribly.

She left for the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of milk. This was thirsty work! Charles remained bent over submissively, allowing his hands to comfort his bottom briefly while Lynn was out of the room.

“Get those hands off there!” she ordered as she arrived back in the room. She placed the tumbler of milk on the sideboard.

“Six left!”

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK! “AAAARGH!”

SWISH-CRACK! “OWWW!”

“That was fun!” she announced. “I wish those lads would hurry up. You’d better get up and pull your trousers back on. You are keeping your uniform on for the main event, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, darling. I am the semi-official witness.”

“And a very naughty boy, too!” she added, pointing the stick at him. “You might be getting some more later. I’m really in the mood this evening!”

Charles rubbed his bottom nervously. His wife was so sexy when she was like this. His first erection of the evening was straining in his trousers.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with disdain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed, it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen-year-old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.

“Good.”

Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for. If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about two inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s disdain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut. For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”

__________

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by author 11plus. All the characters are aged 18 or over!

“This is really rather good. You should try to get it published. I could type it up for you, if you like,” said Julie Smith, as I gazed into her blue eyes. Of course, it was her knickers I really wanted to gaze into.

“Have you got a typewriter at home then?” I asked, “After all, I’m not sure you should type it up here at school.”

“Mum’s got a fancy new electric typewriter. She doesn’t mind me using it.”

“Well, that’s a very kind offer,Julie. Thank you. I’d like that very much. And do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, won’t you?” So it was that I left the smudgy manuscript of ‘I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins’ with her.

The following day, I found myself waiting in the gloomy corridor outside the headmaster’s polished oak door. I was nervous and scared. I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but he seemed terribly angry with me. He’d told me to report to his study ‘within the hour’. But he wasn’t there. What did he want to see me about? Eventually, he came ambling along, smoking, with a chipped mug of tea in his hand. He ushered me into the room, followed me in and then asked me to close the door. He dripped tea over the floor. The stink of stale and fresh cigarette smoke was overwhelming.

It was then that I saw two things that horrified me. On his desk was the manuscript I’d given to Julie. And then right next to it was a crook-handled school cane! It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and end up with six of the best! Even a poor Maths scholar like me could see the inevitable conclusion.

The headmaster picked up my work, saying, “Not very bright of you to autograph this, Hughes! How dare you write this filth, and then bring it into school! And to leave it lying around in the sixth form girls’ study. Surely you know that’s out of bounds, even to senior boys?”

“I’m sorry Sir. I lost track of it. I’ll take it home. It was meant as a fun piece. Not so much a novella, more of a bodice ripper, Sir!”

“A bodice ripper, eh? What a quaint term. However, this is clearly a satanic effort, Hughes. And this is a Christian school, I hardly need to remind you. Clearly, I need to beat the devil out of you. With my bottom ripper!”

“But Sir…”

“Listen lad! I know what you’re going to say. Let me guess now. You’re too old for the cane. You’re 18, an adult. However, I’m a firm believer that no-one, let alone an upper sixth former, is too old for the cane! Now then. I’ve had a look at your record. Never been beaten before, I see. That’s commendable in some ways. But how long has this filthy story been festering away in your mind? Eh?”

“Errr.”

“Lost for words?”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.”

“Hmmm. Well, really I’d like to give you sixteen strokes of the cane, one for each virgin defiled in your filthy story. But I’m not allowed to impose that many. So, perhaps half, that is to say eight would be appropriate.”

“Oh Sir!”

“However, if you agree to me destroying this filth, I will reduce the sentence to six of the best. Six of the very, very best. I’m being lenient. Well, what do you say? Well? Hurry up!”

“Thank you Sir. Please destroy it.”

“Good!” With that he tore the A4 pages in half, top to bottom. He then proceeded to rip the paper into smaller pieces. Once he had finished, he chuckled and piled the scraps into his large glass ashtray. Then to my astonishment, he lit up another cigarette and then used the match to burn the paper scraps. I was worried that the maniac would set the study on fire, but he monitored the smouldering scraps carefully, stubbing out the fires with the tip of his cigarette. He soon lost interest, and left the charred scraps alone. “I feel better already,” he said, leering menacingly at me, “I could let you off I suppose. Yes, I could. I could, but I won’t. You need to be taught a lesson!”

With that, he picked up the cane and started swishing it through the air. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Right lad. Take your jacket off, hang it over there. That’s it. Then over the chair!” He pointed to the grey leather chair. “Lean over the back. That’s it. Right over. Up on your toes. Stick your bottom out more. Hold still! Here it comes now!”

With an almighty crack the cane landed on my thin grey trousers at lightning speed and with an unbelievably venomous sting. The chair moved with the force of the blow. That sting! Oh, so this was what a caning was like. It was hell! Strangely, I felt my bottom willing me on, so I thrust my arse out, goading the sick old man to do his very worst. Which he did, landing a crisp and cutting second stroke in almost the same place as the first one. The pain multiplied, as I gasped with disbelief at the havoc the old man was wreaking, and yet my bottom soon raised up for the next stroke. Thankfully this one landed a little lower, although still blazing away like a wildfire.

Suddenly, he stopped. We were half way through. Waves and waves of pain lapped all over my arse. I was in agony. I was regretting ever having taken pen to paper and vowed to never write anything in the horror genre again.

“Wait there. I want another cigarette,” he informed me. I was about to protest but soon realised that might not be the smartest of ideas. I heard him light up. I just wanted him to get on with my thrashing, but I could hear him puffing away contentedly. I stuck my arse out ready for the next stroke, but the bastard was making me wait and wait. I wiggled my arse, trying to ameliorate the pain as I did so, but he just told me to keep still. Eventually I heard him stub out the ciggie, probably on the remnants of my manuscript.

“Ah, now that was a fine, fine cigarette,” he said, “Nothing more satisfying than the combination of a manly smoke and a good, hard caning!”

He laid into my arse again. The stroke was the lowest yet, cutting into the tender flesh just where arse met thighs. I squealed with shock and pain, utterly humiliated by my bastard headmaster. I wanted it over, but he had stopped again. Surely, he wasn’t going to light up again? I thrust my bottom out provocatively, positively begging for the final two strokes and to bring on the conclusion. It must have worked as I heard the swish and crack of the cane again, releasing new agony and another helpless yelp from yours truly.

I waited and waited for that final stroke. Eventually it came, cracking my grey flannels and causing me to gasp loudly. I shed a few tears too, most embarrassingly.

“Right, you can get up now. I shall be keeping a close eye on you in future, Hughes, my boy. You can expect a fresh, hard caning if you cross my path again! What can you expect boy?”

I couldn’t believe it! As well as humiliating me by caning me black and blue, he now wanted to shame me into repeating his threat! I gave in though, saying, “A fresh, hard caning Sir!”

“Quite so, quite so! Now watch out or it will be with your trousers down next time. Dismissed!”

“Thank you, Sir,” I said submissively, grabbing my blazer from the hook. As I left, I saw that he was filling in the punishment book. I shuddered and was sure that I didn’t want a second entry in there.

I made my way to the toilets and locked myself in a cubicle. I found a biro in my blazer, and was soon adding to the graffiti on the walls. B-A-S-T-A-R-D I wrote, feeling all rebellious. I then dropped my trousers and pants and felt the ridges the cane had left on my arse. An overwhelming urge to masturbate came over me and my rock-hard cock was soon spunking into some toilet paper. The cum was creamy and hot, but not as hot as my arse. Immediately feeling a bit better, I flushed the evidence away and then wrote the words C-A-N-E-D H-A-R-D T-O-D-A-Y on the painted wooden door. My experience duly recorded for posterity, it was time to move on!

The lessons that afternoon were hard to concentrate on. My arse throbbed and ached. The hard extruded plastic chairs in the classrooms were harshly unforgiving. There was no comfort to be had, at least not until I got home, I thought. I fancied a cool bath and then maybe another wank or two.

Julie caught up with me as I walked home. She had heard about my caning. You could count on bad news and schadenfreude spreading quickly around the school. She grabbed my arm and asked how I’d got on. “It did hurt, Julie. I can’t deny it. I’d never been caned before and wouldn’t want it again. My bum is so, so sore. The bastard tore up my story too. I’m not sure how he got his hands on it in the first place.”

“Oh, that’s my fault. I must have left it in girls’ study. I’m such a scatterbrain. I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry you got the cane.”

“It’s alright. I’m lucky not to have been caned before, I reckon. Some of the things I’ve got away with!” I was talking my bad boy image up, hoping to impress the sexy minx with my bravado. “I should have had more sense than to bring the story into school in the first place, I suppose. Still, I’ve got the last laugh as I made a carbon copy as I wrote the bloody thing. If you’re still offering, I’d be grateful if you could type it up for me. And as I said, if you do, just let me know if there’s anything I can do in return.”

“Of course I can type it up for you. It’s the least I can do, and actually, there is something you can do for me.”

Comments welcome

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Hot and brand spanking new fiction by beloved guest author Charles Hamilton the Second. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Mickey Reilly stared down at the toecaps of his shoes. His fingers stretched to touch the scuff marks. He had been instructed, “Bend over. Touch your toes.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. It put a terrible strain on your calf muscles.

Reilly knew how to do it. He had been in this position before. Probably would be again. Spread the feet a little. That was the answer. Keep the head low and the bottom high.

Michael Reilly, aged 18, member of the Upper Sixth. He had never been made a prefect. Definitely wasn’t prefect material. In the headmaster’s study. Again. Waiting patiently for six-of-the-best.

Reilly was the kind of lad who went looking for trouble. When he couldn’t find any, trouble came looking for him. It had found him that morning. Just off the bus, minding his own business. Talking to his pal Joey about last night’s football. A bunch of oiks from Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. Had things to say about the grammar school. It’s fancy green-and-gold blazers. The “Nancy” school caps the boys had to wear.

Who threw the first punch? Nobody will ever know. Fists flew, eyes were blacked.

The headmaster jawed and jawed Reilly. “Disgraceful behaviour … Brawling in the street … Letting the school down …”

No use telling the headmaster he had fought the yobs to defend the honour of the school. He wouldn’t understand it at all.

Reilly had a close-up view of the rug beneath his feet. He’d seen it many times before. Still couldn’t work out what the design on it was. Some kind of building. A palace perhaps? Or a stately home?

The headmaster flexed his cane. Three feet of rattan with a crook handle. Just like in schools up and down the country. He looked across at Reilly. A senior boy. Eighteen years old. Bent submissively, offering up his backside for chastisement. A little bit of tradition being played out in his study. It made him proud to be English.

Reilly felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers. The headmaster was finding his aim. Any moment now. Reilly knew it would hurt. A great deal. That was the point of it. No point in caning a boy’s backside unless it hurt. He understood that. A boy had to learn the error of his ways. A sore backside would make him stop and think a little.

The headmaster took hold of the tail of Reilly’s blazer and pushed it up his back. Away from the target area. Any moment now.

Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with great force across the middle of Reilly’s bum. He hissed. Air escaped through his clenched teeth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. Nothing he could do about it. He would probably grunt and groan a bit as the next five cuts whopped into his beefy bum. That was all right. It was allowed. “Ouch-ing” and “Ooo-ing” was permitted. But a boy mustn’t blub. If it got out that he had cried while getting the cane, he’d never hear the end of it from his schoolmates.

The second landed. Whop! Just below the first slice. Reilly’s buttocks were blazing. The headmaster was an expert with the cane. His beatings were awesome. Talked about by every boy in the school. Nobody wanted to show him his arse.

Reilly concentrated on the picture on the rug. Definitely a palace, he thought, as swipe number three connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. Stopped himself just in time.

That was low. Too low. The headmaster wasn’t playing fair. Reilly would have a deep purple mark there. Wouldn’t clear up for days. More than a week even. He wouldn’t be able to sit down properly for some considerable time.

“Keep still boy. Fingers on toes please.”

The pain was searing. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much. He could feel perspiration running down his back. His woollen blazer was a bit tight and it made him sweat.

This was becoming one of the nastiest beatings of his life. Could be worse though. He thought of that sixth-former who was caned by his headmaster. Trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees. Bare arsed. It had been in the newspapers that week.

The headmaster paused. Allowed Reilly to settle. Took careful aim. He hadn’t intended to slash the boy across the back of his thighs. Missed his aim a little. No excuse, really. He should do better. He had been caning boys’ backsides for nigh on thirty years. But maybe, not for much longer. The Government was talking about abolishing corporal punishment in schools. A Conservative Government, Ye Gods! Banning the cane. What was the world coming to? What was England coming to? He blamed the European Community. He always blamed the European Community.

He struck the fourth high. On the top of the curves, well away from the thighs. Was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp from Reilly. The headmaster was administering the strokes with some vim. He had beaten carpets with less force.

Reilly breathed hard. In. Out. In. Out. Four clearly defined welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants. In neat parallel lines. A strip about two inches wide blazed across his buttocks. Felt like someone had pressed hot metal into his flesh.

Number five went lower. Hit the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Where there was most padding. Sank deep into the meat before springing back. Left one heck of a line. Reilly stifled a yell. Choked a little. Felt like he might vomit. He hacked out a cough.

Last one to come. Reilly braced himself. Been here before. He knew all about the headmaster’s canings and that last stroke. Screwed his eyes up tight. Clenched his teeth. Ready and waiting.

The headmaster adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both Reilly’s cheeks. Bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Reilly tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound. Crashed into the boy’s bum. Connected with the welts oozing under the boy’s pants. Set each one of them on fire again. Reilly gripped his shins. Wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about. March up and down like a sentry guard. Rub his hands into his blazing bum.

He managed to stay down. Was proud of himself. It was over. His arse felt like he had sat on a barbecue. But, he had survived. Another six-of-the-best was over. Waited. Waited for the headmaster’s permission to rise.

The headmaster slowly paced his study. Opened a door to his cupboard. Replaced the cane alongside half a dozen others. Turned, looked across at Reilly, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively. A master and his pupil.

The headmaster returned to his desk. The sixth-former heard the drawer open and a book being removed. He still stared down at the rug. The headmaster found his page, wrote a few details.

“You may stand Reilly.”

Hot. Sweaty. Sore. The teenager wanted to rub away at his backside. Another reflex action. He knew from experience it did no good. Just had to wait for the pain to go away on its own. Already the agony had turned to a resounding throbbing. Soon, it would be a warm glow. That cut on the back of his thighs would hurt for quite some time though.

“Sign.” The headmaster slid the punishment book across the desk. Reilly hesitated. Went through his pockets. Pretended to be looking for a pen. He knew he didn’t have one.

“Pah!” The headmaster’s patience was thin. He had other things to do. He delved back into the desk drawer, rummaged around. Found a half-chewed ballpoint pen. Rolled it across the desk.

Reilly signed his name.

“You are dismissed Reilly. Send in the next boy.”

Reilly slowly opened the heavy oak door. Outside was Joey, his pal from the fight. “Six,” he mouthed silently before shuffling down the passageway towards the lavatories.

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

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Second part of this spanking story by Rod Cayenne. Strictly Over-18s only!

Dennis Miller, Junior Associate Physics Master, couldn’t help noticing how well colleague Adrian Bruce and the headmaster had been getting on as the week wore on. Maybe that caning his friend had mentioned discreetly had brought the two men closer? Dennis was a little envious. All the same, he was sure that he didn’t want to go through the same thing. He couldn’t help wondering whether Adrian was the first junior master ever to be caned there at the school.

On the Saturday morning, Dennis reported to the office for his performance assessment. Headmaster, Mr Victor Timpson, cut an imposing figure in his distinguished tweeds. Dennis gazed at him with admiration, bordering on affection. Just then, however, the junior master noticed the whippy punishment cane lying on the desk. Surely, there was no prospect?

“No, I trust not, Headmaster!”

“No. I’ve been very pleased with your performance, lad.”

The 23-year-old blushed with embarrassment at the compliment and at being referred to as if he were indeed still a lad or schoolboy. He watched carefully as the headmaster placed the cane back in the cast iron umbrella stand behind him.

“Thank you, Sir. I’ve tried hard and I think I can honestly say that I’ve only stuffed up a couple of lessons.”

“Stuffed up, that’s a funny expression, what do you mean exactly?”

“Oh you know Sir, screwed up. Big time.”

“Screwed up? What a coarse expression. I don’t much care for that. Tell me about these lessons, please Mr Miller.”

“Well, you know Sir, ever since the moon landings ceased, the boys seem to be less and less interested in science. I’ve had to use the cane a few times to keep them motivated. I do appreciate being given corporal punishment rights.”

“Yes. Not all of my junior masters have those rights, you know.”

“No, I know, Sir. Thank you again.”

“So these stuffed up lessons, what do you attribute the problems to?”

“Oh my fault entirely, Headmaster. Lack of preparation, really.”

“I see. And what punishment do you deem appropriate for a pupil who hasn’t done his prep?”

“A good question, Sir. A caning is often called for, Sir. Especially for a repeat offender.”

“You seem very sure about that, Mr Miller. So let me ask you another question, then.”

“Fire away, Headmaster!”

“Oh don’t worry, Miller. I shall fire away. Most certainly. So, my new question is, what punishment should a junior master who hasn’t done prep for his lessons get? Especially if he is, how shall I put this? A repeat offender!”

“Oh Sir!”

“Yes, indeed! A caning!”

“But Sir! I’ve never had the cane before!”

“Hold on! I have given corporal punishment rights to someone who has never experienced a good, hard caning himself? How could I have been so stupid?”

“Well Sir. I may have slightly misled you when we discussed the matter before.”

“You are making things worse for yourself again, Miller. Every little revelation is dimming my view of you. Now, let’s just examine the official school punishment book. You are of course recording all beatings in here?”

“Oh yes, Sir. Your secretary has been most helpful in that regard, even tracking the pupils down to ensure that they countersign their entries.”

“Ah, yes. Jayne is assiduous in these matters, even despite her obvious distaste for the use of the cane. Let’s see. Yes. An awful lot of entries from you, Mr Miller. I hadn’t really picked up on that before. Mainly sixes, too, I see. Quite the little sadist aren’t you?”

Poor Dennis Miller stared with embarrassment at his scuffed suede shoes. There was nowhere else to look. He couldn’t bring himself to reply. He could not look Mr Timpson in the eye, just at that moment. There was a heavy sigh from the headmaster, who rocked back in his chair and leant back to grab a cane from the umbrella stand. He had picked, at random, a senior model. Its crook-handle and brown patina made it look old and distinguished, though it was actually a fairly new addition to the arsenal, chosen by his secretary, Jayne Wilkins, who was an expert in sourcing punishment rattans. Indeed, the headmaster’s study was well-stocked with canes. As well as in the umbrella stand, there were further canes hanging on hooks in the walk-in cupboard. The headmaster rose and approached the cupboard, opening the door and pulling out the wooden caning stool.

“My, my! I hadn’t expected to be doing this today, Mr Miller! It has to be six for you, of course. Just like the boys have been getting. You can keep your trousers on, but I shall expect you to take your beating with decorum. Is that clear?”

“Sir! There must be another way?”

“Not unless you want your cards, Miller. And arguing about your punishment is not good form. Hardly the decorum I just mentioned, is it? Take your jacket off and bend over the stool.”

Miller removed his brown cord jacket and draped it over the chair he had been sat in. Slowly, he bent over the official caning stool, his trousers riding up his pert posterior, causing a half-mast effect, displaying his lime green socks prominently. Timpson noticed the socks, they were ghastly and nothing like the sober grey socks of his usual visitors. To him, it was just another example of Miller’s poor judgement. The cane slashed down.

“AARGH!” cried the junior master, leaping up from the stool, and clutching at his backside.

“What did I say about decorum, Miller? That wasn’t a hard stroke, you know. Even a first year could have taken that one in his stride. Get back down, right now!”

Gingerly, the young master resumed his position. The headmaster surveyed the scene. Not a particularly shapely bottom, he mused to himself as he lined up his second stroke.

“OWWW!” Once again, Miller was showing his distress, much to the annoyance of Mr Timpson. The same thing happened with the third stroke.

The headmaster took a break and started to pace around the room, flexing and swishing the cane as he addressed the junior master, “Really quite a cowardly display! For someone keen on using the cane to maintain classroom discipline, I would have expected rather more.”

“Sorry, Sir,` croaked the junior master, still obviously in distress.

The next stroke elicited only a loud groan from Dennis Miller, but it was only a temporary display of courage, as the fifth stroke hit him with agonising pain accompanied by a loud squeal! How his bottom throbbed and ached from the cruel punishment being meted out to him!

“Last one! See if you can take it quietly, Miller. I don’t like all this unnecessary fuss.”

With a loud crack, the cane landed right on target for the last time. Miller leapt to his feet, clutching his backside and cursing indistinctly.

“Well! Have you learnt how much a caning can hurt, Dennis?” asked the headmaster with a slightly more friendly tone.

“I’ll say so, Sir! That really hurt.”

“Good! But I feel I have no choice but to withdraw your corporal punishment rights until such time as you can prove to me that you can take it as well as you give it out. That was a most cowardly performance. Let me know when you feel ready to discuss the matter again.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let’s fill out the punishment book, shall we? It’s a shame there isn’t a comments column, as I’d record ‘poorly taken’ if there were one.”

The poor junior master felt utterly humiliated. As he walked home, he reflected that the only way he could get his much-loved corporal punishment rights reinstated was to take a further beating from his employer, and that was out of the question.

A dejected Dennis Miller opened the front door, only to be met by his step-father, Jim. A recent addition to the household, there was sometimes friction between the two men. This time, however, Jim gave a friendly smile and a firm handshake.

“You look a bit got at, young Dennis!” the older man laughed.

“Yes, the headmaster wasn’t very happy with me. Don’t tell Mum, but the bastard whacked me!”

“What?”

“I said the bastard whacked me! Six of the best with the cane, just like the boys get. Said I hadn’t been preparing for lessons and was too keen on beating the boys.”

“Aha! Power corrupts, doesn’t it? A bit too free with the cane, eh? I was the same when I was a prefect!”

“What? Prefects caned at your school?”

“Oh yes! It was what they call ‘old school’ in many ways…”

“No more jollies for you then, eh lad?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do! Anyway, this is a pretty dire situation. If you don’t want me to tell your mother, you’d better allow me to top up your caning.”

“What? You’re joking! That’s blackmail!”

“No, no, Dennis. Your behaviour towards your mother has been disgraceful lately anyway. I know that maybe something to do with jealousy caused by my arrival. You’re obviously in need of some friendly family guidance from your dear old stepfather. As it happens I’ve got a cane here, a souvenir from my prefect days. It might take me a minute or two to find as I still haven’t unpacked everything! Up to your room now, I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

“No Jim! Really!”

“Shut up, Dennis. And you can call me Sir!”

For the second time that day, Dennis felt trapped. Even worse, for the second time that day he was facing a caning. Until that day, his backside had been virgin territory as far as the cane and its ravages were concerned. But all that had changed earlier, and was now about to be reinforced. Desperately unhappy, Dennis made his way upstairs to his untidy bedroom.

Jim burst in with a flourish. In his right hand he held a cane dating back over two decades to his own school days. But first, there was another shock for Dennis.

“I want to inspect your bottom, Dennis. I need to see how badly it is marked to determine how hard I need to be.”

“Oh, Jim! No!”

“That’s ‘Sir’ and ‘yes’ to you, boy!”

“Sorry, Sir,” said Dennis realising perhaps that he had no choice. He bent over the bed and slipped his jeans and pants down so that his stepfather could examine his bottom.

“A few nice marks. Not too deep, just surface scarring. It’s quite a large bottom, isn’t it? I reckon I could fit another eight strokes in there. Any more could be a touch cruel. We’ll keep the bottom bare though.”

Things were going from bad to worse for Dennis. Eight strokes instead of a maximum of six that he had anticipated, and now they were to be bare bottom! He could only hope his stepfather was out of practice! But it was to prove to be a forlorn hope…

CRACK! The first stroke landed with presence and determination. Poor Dennis yelped with pain. Clearly, his stepfather has lost none of his ability acquired all those years ago.

CRACK! The second stroke just added to the pain. Again, Dennis yelped, quite inappropriately for a 23-year-old.

CRACK! CRACK! Jim upped the ante by adding two strokes in rapid succession. His stepson just gasped and groaned.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne

I was eighteen at the time. I’d dropped out of school and straight into some warehouse work, which I really enjoyed. I was still living with my parents, as I was saving up with a view to renting a place with a friend. They were away on holiday, so I had promised to look after the place and keep the garden tidy. In fact, I was in the conservatory looking at the long grass as I played idly with my stiff penis that morning. I pulled my foreskin back and teased the glans with my fingertips.

I hadn’t expected to be scared shitless by a family friend, but that’s exactly what happened. My parents had asked Mr Atkinson to keep an eye on me while they were away. He had been a teacher at my school, but I was never in his class. My main contact with him had been at the after school Chess Club that he ran. I was a fair to middling player, but with his avuncular encouragement, I’d improved my game considerably. He had a bit of a reputation for strictness, but for being firm but fair. A few of my contemporaries had been slippered by him. Apparently, an appointment with his punishment plimsoll was not easily forgotten.

Anyway, that day he must have slipped into the garden, and catching me at it, he had banged on the glass of the conservatory. I nearly leapt out of my skin! I hurriedly shoved my stiff member back into my pants and went to let him in.

“Just what do you think you are doing, Justin?” he asked. Well, it was obvious what I’d been doing. I’d been masturbating. I thought in those days, the ’80s, that everyone accepted that it was a normal and healthy thing to be doing. Not Mr Atkinson, though! He was really pissed off with me. I’d never heard him shout so much, and he was shaking with rage.

“You dirty, dirty boy. If I’d caught you doing that at school, you’d have tasted my slipper or the head’s cane! Shouldn’t you be mowing the grass anyway?”

I nodded with embarrassment. How I wished my parents hadn’t encouraged him to pop around to make sure all was well. My parents! Suddenly, it dawned on me that he might tell them. I had to beg him not to.

“Yes, Rob and Dawn wouldn’t be best pleased would they? Such depravity! If you really can’t control your urges Justin, you should do it in private behind a locked door. Surely your father must have warned you about this sort of thing?”

“Actually, no. He was too embarrassed to ever talk to me about it.”

“That no excuse but it explains a lot. And I suppose he never smacked you?”

“No, not really. Neither did you, Sir.” It seemed like a good moment to use his old title.

“No indeed, but I rather wish I had done now. Would have sorted you out. Just what you needed.”

Rather foolishly, I nodded, adding, “It’s not too late.”

He looked at me strangely. For I had spoken an unspoken truth. At eighteen, I was very much still the schoolboy to his teacher figure. He shook his head. Then after a short silence, he shook it again. “Come with me!” he demanded.

I locked up, placing the keys in a pocket of my Wranglers and I followed him up the footpath, rather like an obedient dog. He lived up the far end of our road. On his own.

“In!” he ordered as we reached the threshold. His place was vaguely familiar, for it had a similar floor plan and feel to our family home.

“Sit down a minute,” he said, as he disappeared upstairs. I sat down on the grubby orange dralon sofa. I was sweating profusely, worried sick. He soon came downstairs, carrying a dirty white plimsoll and a crook-handled cane.

“Oh, not a smacking then?” I asked naively.

“Well, couldn’t you just smack me on the bare? There’s no need for those barbaric things.”

“Don’t worry, Justin. Your punishment will be on your bare bottom. But I think a hard thrashing with this cane is what is warranted. The slipper’s not going to teach you to keep your penis in your jeans, is it?” he said, throwing the plimsoll down on the deep pile carpet.

“Oh, Mr Atkinson!”

“Jeans and underwear down please. Bend over this pouffe.”

Submissively I did as I was told. My arse seemed like it was on offer, raised provocatively on the brown leatherette. I felt quite exposed and almost giddy with fear, or was it excitement? At that particular moment I felt as if I was fulfilling some destiny. It was as if my arse had always been meant to be chastised by him.

With an almighty crack the first stroke landed. I’d never felt pain like it, and immediately cried out. He laughed at me, which made me feel about one foot tall.

“Just what you need, Justin. We’ll have to make it twelve if you don’t want me to tell your parents what you were up to.”

I groaned. A dozen seemed an awful lot. I wasn’t sure I could stand the pain. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. Just then the second stroke cracked down. It was even worse than the first one. I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but this was going to be a difficult situation from which to emerge with any dignity intact.

The third swished down, and then another. And another. And another. Halfway! Halfway to hell, it seemed.

He stopped. I could hear him swishing the cane through the air. He was enjoying this, I felt sure. What a bastard…

“You know, Justin, you have a very caneable backside! What a shame your father never took a stick to it. I could lend him one, I suppose.”

I choked with shock. Surely he was joking? My thoughts were interrupted by the seventh stroke, which demanded my full attention. Shit, it did. My poor fucking arse!

“Yes, Justin. He can borrow this very cane!”

“I thought you weren’t going to tell him?” I asked, in a panic.

“Shut up boy and take your medicine like a man,” he admonished. All the medicine in the world wouldn’t have convinced me that I wasn’t a very sick patient by that stage! My arse felt like it was being ripped apart as the eighth and ninth strokes landed painfully.

The tenth stroke wasn’t so bad, but I think he was playing games with me as the last two were incredibly intense, red-hot and sheer agony.

I started to recover my composure a little, though I remained bent over submissively. His hands were feeling my buttocks, and then he probed around my crack. It was a nice sensation. Chess Club was never like this.

Carol was a bit shocked that her mother had suddenly expressed a wish to cane her. This hadn’t been in her plans when she bought that jokey present. She was a bit old for the cane, too.

By this time, Carol’s mother had pulled a dining chair into the middle of the room. She obviously wasn’t joking.

“Shut up Carol! Of course you’re not too old. Now bend yourself over this chair. We’ll start with a traditional six of the best. Like that cushion just had!”

“Oh, Mum!” exclaimed Carol, remembering what a sound thrashing the cushion had taken. Indeed, dust from the cushion was still in the air, and visible in the streams of sunshine coming through the window.

“You can keep your skirt and knickers on if you behave yourself, although the skirt will be raised out of the way.”

“Oh, Mum!”

“Six of the best, then.”

Swish-Crack! Mum wasted no time slashing the first stroke down on her daughter’s pert knickered bottom.

“AARGH!” Carol cried, leaping up and clutching her bottom. She massaged her cheeks frantically.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Carol? You’re meant to stay in position. Really, the girls at school were so much better behaved.”

“Well they were probably used to it!” Carol exclaimed, still rubbing her bottom frantically.

“Carol, I suggest you bend over again, right now, unless you want me to repeat the stroke!”

Filled with horror at the suggestion of an extra penalty stroke, Carol bent over submissively for her mother, somewhat embarrassed by events. Mum flexed the cane, eyeing the temptation before her. Carol’s bottom was more womanly than pert, offering an ample and very punishable target. Mum prepared herself for the next stroke, telling herself that there was no point in holding back! After all, this was likely to be the one and only time the cane would be employed for its designated use.

Swish-Crack! The second stroke landed on Carol’s white lacy knickers. The daughter gasped, and her face flushed. This was quite an experience, one she thought she would never have.

Swish-Crack! The cane landed again, causing Carol to squeal, much to her mother’s satisfaction.

CRACK! A heavy, brutal stroke crashed onto Carol’s bottom. She leapt up again! Her mother frowned as she watched Carol rubbing her bottom.

Swish-Crack! Swish-Crack! Mum was getting into her stride. Her daughters naked, striped bottom was a delightful sight. It seemed to encourage and beckon the whippy stick.

Indeed, the cane lashed down again, causing a very vocal shriek.

“I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you properly yet! Stay down for two more!”

“Oh, Mum!”

CRACK!CRACK! On and on it went, two more each time. Mum’s taste for caning had been rekindled. Carol just felt sore and stupid, wriggling as the cane lashed her bum.

A few days later, Mum was over at her other daughter’s home. Mother and daughter were sat on the rattan sofa in the conservatory, enjoying a Pimms in the spring sunshine.

“Mum, I heard about Carol’s caning.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, let me tell you Penny, she deserved every one of those strokes.”

“But Mum, there were over twenty, I’m told. That was a bit harsh. Especially as it was me who was caught with the drugs.”

“Being caught was your own stupid fault. You took your punishment.”

“Yes, Mum. But Community Service hardly compares with what you gave Carol the other day.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t believe in punishing twice for the same thing. You don’t want the cane do you?”

“Yes, I do actually. Have you got it with you?”

“No, of course not. I’m not going to keep it in the car, now am I? Now who’s being stupid? It’s hidden in the bedroom where your father and I can keep an eye on it. We don’t want Carol breaking it.”

“OK Mum. I do deserve a good whipping, though. I thought you might not have the cane with you, so I thought we could use one of my riding crops instead. Let’s go into the living room, I’ve left my favourite crop in there.”

♥ Site recommended story ♥

* Hot, long and explicit fiction by special guest author JOELSTRAP *

David glanced at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering in the west, obscuring the hills around the lake, and rain seemed imminent. He tried to decide where to go for some shelter and concluded that the most sensible option would be to get on a bus to the next village and hope that by the time he arrived there the rain had stopped. Even as he made up his mind to do this however, large fat drops began to spatter the ground and he speeded up his pace. It was as he was approaching the bus-stop, that he saw the old school.

Outside, a sandwich-board proclaimed that it was a museum, open to the public, and free of charge too. It was almost five o’clock and the door was closed, but it opened when he turned the handle tentatively. He entered, and ambled round various displays about local history, artifacts dug up in the district, photographs, some brown and curling at the edges, of local worthies long-since gone to their eternal home. Towards the back of the building, he came across an old classroom which was furnished as it would have been in Victorian times when the school was built.

Rows of hard wooden seats faced a teacher’s tall desk with a high stool behind it. The children’s desks were ink-splashed, paint-stained and carved with the initials of generations of bored youngsters. On the side of the teacher’s desk, from a hook screwed into the wood, there hung a slender cane. David gazed wonderingly at it. He knew about corporal punishment in school although it had been abolished well before he was born eighteen years earlier. For some reason the lithe rod fascinated him and as he tried to visualise himself bending over one of the wooden desks and being hit across his bottom with the cane, his penis rose swiftly and he was forced to thrust a hand into the front of his jeans and rearrange things a little.

He glanced round but there was no-one else in the room. He reached out a nervous hand and carefully lifted the cane from its hook. He held his breath as he arched it gently, savouring its slim length and whippy feel. This, he was certain, would sting like hell. As he flexed it slowly he saw himself bending over and a muscular young master wielding the cane across his buttocks. He imagined the pain, how he’d wince and perhaps gasp, how his gluteal-muscles would tighten as the cane hit him and how……

Hello! What are you up to?

David jumped and spun round to face a tall young man, perhaps in his early-thirties, who was watching him with a hint of a smile on his lips.

Er, I was just looking. Sorry, I suppose I’m not meant to touch things.

Don’t worry. It fascinates you, does it? Want to try it?

Sure. Like to feel what it’s like to get a cane lashed hard across your bare arse?

David gulped.

I………I don’t know….I mean it’s kind of an exciting idea…but I don’t know if I could take it.

Just say the word and you will know, said the young man.

Oh, God! I’m not certain. Could I think about it? asked David uneasily.

You’ll have to hurry. I’m finished here in ten minutes.

He disappeared and left David alone with his tumbling thoughts. Want to be caned? That’s what the young man had said. Caned! His penis rose so sharply that he gasped as he struggled to release it from the constrictions of his clothing. David decided that he did want to discover the secret of the cane. He’d never been thrashed in his life. This was an experience of past generations and one to which he’d been denied access. It was the responsibility of every enquiring boy to experience as wide a range of things as he could in life; and surely getting caned was a worthwhile adventure.

David gave a tentative call.

Out in the vestibule, came a faint response.

David made his way through and found the young man placing the sandwich-board behind the door.

I, er, well, yes, I’d like to try the cane if you don’t mind………, David said, and then trailed off into embarrassed silence.

Sure, mate. Just go and wait for me in the school-room, he said to David. Stand in front of the teacher’s desk and don’t touch the cane!

Yes, sir, replied David in mock seriousness.

The young man gave him a stern look.

Now! he ordered.

Unsure why, David hurried to obey.

He grew increasingly nervous as he waited for the young man to come and cane him. How much would it hurt? Would he disgrace himself by leaping up and running out like a coward? Not if he could help it! Footsteps! He was coming; and so was the caning. David swallowed and blinked uneasily.

The young man came to the desk, took the cane from its place and bent it into a smooth curve.

You do not touch things in museum displays, boy, said the young man grimly. Do you understand?

Yes, sir.

You’re going to be punished for your behavior, to teach you to keep your hands to yourself in future. Three strokes of the cane on your bare buttocks. Understood, boy?

Yes, sir.

Drop your jeans and pants and bend over that desk.

David unbuckled his belt, unzipped his denims and slid them to his ankles. He put his hands at the waistband of his pants and hesitated. He’d never shown a stranger his tackle before and he was embarrassed because he had a massive erection which he could hardly conceal once his pants came down.

Hurry up, boy.

David took courage and slipped his pants down too; and then turned and bent over the desk, legs apart, hands gripping the sides.

He felt the touch of the limber cane, cool wood against his hot flesh, which was tense and with a sheen of sweat. The young man rapped the cane lightly on David’s bare skin so that he flinched apprehensively.

Don’t move! ordered the young man.

David steadied himself and waited while several long seconds crawled by. He felt the cane being lifted from his rump and heard it whistle as it descended hard and fast towards his vulnerable globes. He felt the impact of the stroke and then a split second later a streak of fire seared across his buttocks so that he bucked slightly and gasped aloud. The pain burned deeper as he clenched the muscles in his behind and then, just as it reached its apogee, the young man wielded the cane again, etching a slender band of fire just below the first.

Fuck!

David uttered the expletive with venom as he gripped the edges of the desk so hard that his knuckles showed white. His body shuddered. A few seconds later the third stroke lashed across his bottom and he failed to completely stifle a yelp. His lower body was quivering uncontrollably and for a few seconds he drummed with his feet on the floor as he struggled to process the raging inferno in his rear.

Stand up, boy!

Stiffly, David rose. He placed his hands tentatively on his buttocks and was surprised at the heat there. With the soft pads of his fingers, he traced the three raised welts across his rump, wonder glowing in his face; and even as he did so, his penis rose steadily to its full length.

Seems you liked that, observed the young man, grinning broadly.

David felt himself going bright red and muttered about pulling up his clothes.

Hell, yes, David admitted, caressing his bottom ruefully. I never realised that getting my tail tanned would hurt like that, he confessed. But…..yeah, I reckon I did kind of like it in a funny kind of way. It hurt like hell, but it was exciting, you know, challenging, too; and I took it.

David pulled up his pants and jeans and the young man restored the cane to its place on the side of the desk.

Thanks, said David, extending his hand to shake that of the young man.

A minute or two later he was on his way down the road. The rain had stopped and as he ambled along slowly in the late-afternoon sun, he was acutely aware of a pleasant glow in his bottom, and a stiffie like a flagpole tenting the front of his jeans.

You got caned; and you liked it! David thought to himself.

And you’re going to get caned again, aren’t you? said his bottom and his cock simultaneously.

David smiled to himself and gave his comely rump a careful scrub.

What do you think? he asked them silently.

His buttocks seemed reluctant to deliver a definite view, one moment urging another meeting with the slender cane and the next reminding warningly of the intensity of the sting which that implement could inflict.

David’s pal, Nicol, was staying with a friend for two nights, which is why David had found himself on his own in the lakeside town in the middle of their holiday together between school and college. As he devoured his evening meal, walked in the evening sunshine by the water’s edge, and downed a couple of pints in the local hostelry, the caning played over and over in his mind as if it was on an endless loop. In his sleeping-bag that night, he experienced one of his best-ever orgasms as he relived the beating while stroking his throbbing penis. Next morning, he decided to go back to the museum and to see if another session with the cane could be arranged with the young man.

When he arrived there around half-past ten, he found the door wide open and several people wandering about inside. An elderly lady, who looked as if she’d been the schoolmistress there in nineteen hundred, gave him a disapproving glare as his rucksack bumped against the glass-panel in the door.

Sorry, David muttered, resolving to take more care. The old dragon looked as if she was quite capable of caning him if he damaged anything. He wanted to be caned, but definitely not by her. After wandering around hopefully for almost twenty minutes, there was no sign of the young guy from the previous day. David decided it wasn’t his turn on duty and that he was going to have to ask about him. He approached the dragon diffidently, smiling as politely and submissively as he could.

Er, excuse me, sorry to bother you.

It’s no bother, she replied, giving him a look which suggested he was the most bothersome thing she’d seen in a long time.

I was in just before five yesterday afternoon and there was a young chap on duty here. I’ve got an, er, photograph that I said I’d bring back to show him. Will he be in later on today?

Photograph? said the dragon interrogatively and it suddenly dawned on David that she thought it might be an indecent photograph.

Er, yes, of the sunrise on the lake with mist rising off the water, he babbled, improvising desperately. Very beautiful.

I’m sure, she responded dryly, suggesting she thought the likelihood of the photograph being so innocent was slightly less than that of Martians landing on the village street. In any case, there is no young man works here; only myself and Mr.Simmonds, who is in his sixties.

But yesterday afternoon, I met him here and ………

Besides which, she continued, over-riding him grimly, the museum closes at four.

But it wasn’t………

Good morning. Please take care not to hit anything with your rucksack on the way out.

David stared helplessly and then with a swiftly muttered thank you to which he appended an inaudible for nothing, he headed outside and sat down on a bench in the sun.

Now what? he asked himself. I didn’t imagine it. That young guy really was there and it was nearly five o’clock; and I did get caned; and I’ve got the marks to prove it; but why should the old witch lie? Damn, damn and damn!

Disconsolately, David made his way back to the centre of the town for coffee; and then he spent the remainder of the morning rowing angrily across the lake in a hired boat before retiring with blistered palms for a pub-lunch. In the afternoon he mooched around the shops and along the lake-shore until it was almost five o’clock when he went back to the museum. The door was however locked and no young man was in evidence. Sulkily, David headed for the café where he’d arranged to meet Nicol when he returned from visiting his pal.

Nicol was the same age as David and the two had been friends for several years. He was always good fun and they were soon laughing hilariously at Nicol’s account of his meeting with his friend. They dined alfresco by the water’s edge, seated on a wooden bench at a table outside the pub. After they’d eaten, David went into the bar and emerged with two foaming pints and slid himself on to the bench beside Nicol. As he did so, he let out a howl of pain and beer slopped from both glasses as he crashed them clumsily on to the table-top.

What the hell’s the matter with you? demanded Nicol. You’re spilling the beer.

Fuck the beer. I’ve got a fucking great splinter in my fucking arse, said David, making things quite clear.

Nicol’s eyes widened.

Straight up?

No! Straight in! elucidated David savagely, standing up and feeling his left buttock carefully.

Come on. We’ll go into the lavvy and have a look, said Nicol.

We? I’ll go and have a look. You stay and guard the beer.

David headed off into the bar, walking slowly and wincing as he moved. In the privacy of the toilet he dropped his jeans and pants and looked at his behind in the mirror. A splinter of wood, fully an inch or more in length had been driven into the flesh, near enough the surface that he could see it as a dark line beneath the skin. One small piece protruded and he grasped it between two fingers and gave a tentative pull. Pain seared and he gasped and swore luridly under his breath. It appeared that the sliver of wood was rough at the edges and wasn’t just going to slide out easily. A tiny trickle of blood seeped from the entry-point. David washed it with a wet paper-towel, pulled up his clothes and headed back outside.

Well? demanded Nicol.

No, replied David sourly. Bloody great skelf, right in deep and it won’t move. I’ll have to get a doctor.

Nicol stood up.

You sit here and wait and I’ll go into the bar and……..what?

You trying to be funny, mate? growled David, his brow clouded with wrath.

Eh? I’m only going to…….oh, I get it. Right. Well, just stand and wait then. Won’t be long.

Nicol trotted off inside and emerged a minute or two later.

They say we should go up to the hospital and somebody in A & E will see to you. It’s just a ten minute walk up the road apparently. Better drink our beer first; pity to waste it.

The two lads hastily gulped down their drinks and then headed off, slowly, towards the hospital. It took a lot longer than ten minutes at David’s pace and he was relieved when they arrived. A bustling woman showed him to a cubicle, after establishing why he’d come, and told him to pull down his jeans and pants and to lie face-down on the examination couch. The nurse would be in shortly and should be able to help him. Nicol sat himself on a chair and watched as David bared his behind and climbed on to the couch.

Suffering shit!

David glared at him.

What? he demanded. It’s only a bloody splinter in my arse.

Nicol was grinning broadly.

What? demanded David in rising irritation.

Looks like the splinter’s not the only wood that’s been invading your backside recently, observed Nicol gleefully. Who’s been a naughty boy, then?

Oh, fuck! I forgot that, said David, glancing round at the cane-marks still showing clearly on his bottom.

I never knew you were into getting your bum thrashed, said Nicol.

I’m not. I mean, it just sort of happened. I didn’t plan it.

Sure. Just went into a shop and asked if they did beatings; and there you were, nicely striped.

Just shut up, will you. I’ll tell you what happened.

David related the tale of his experience with the young man and the cane the previous day and of his frustration at what had passed at the museum earlier that morning. Nicol listened, gently caressing his crotch.

You sure you weren’t imagining it?

Do these look like they’re imaginary? snapped David, nodding towards the marks on his bottom.

Nicol stood up and bent down to inspect the cane-lines at close quarters.

Shit! They’re real enough, he admitted. Did they hurt?

What do you think?

But you want more?

Well, yeh, I think so. It was kind of, you know, exciting; got me going down below. I just wondered if I could try it again.

At that moment there was a sound of footsteps approaching and the two boys fell silent. The curtain was torn aside and in came a male nurse.

You! gasped David, staring disbelievingly.

For a moment the nurse hesitated and then spoke.

Of course. The guy I caned at the museum yesterday. Knew you by your stripes, he added with a grin.

Thanks a bundle, muttered David with an embarrassed look.

So, you got a splinter up your arse, eh? How’d you manage that, then? Get your mate to paddle you with his cricket-bat and he hit you so hard a bit came off his bat and penetrated you?

Ha, bloody ha! snarled David.

Now that’s an idea, murmured Nicol.

The nurse turned to him and shook his hand.

You think he needs a spanking, mate?

Well, he seems to have got a kick out of that caning you gave him. He was back at the museum this morning, looking for more.

Oh, he was, was he? I suppose I could oblige. He’s got a very cane-able pair of buttocks there and I wouldn’t mind another chance to put a few more stripes on them for him. Maybe you’d like to help?

You bet! I could….

Do you two mind? If you’ve quite finished discussing how you’re going to cane the fuck out of my behind, maybe you could spare a few seconds to get this bloody splinter out, David snapped sarcastically.

Well, it’s not exactly pleasant, said David.

Ronan busied himself with antiseptic, towels, tweezers and a magnifying-glass. He grasped the end of the splinter and pulled firmly. David yelled.

Right, said Ronan thoughtfully. I think I’ll have to get the doctor.

He went out and returned several minutes later with a middle-aged doctor who examined the splinter, made no comment about the cane-marks, told Ronan to inject some anaesthetic into the area around the injury and said he’d be back shortly to make a small incision so that he could extract the splinter. He went out and Ronan took a syringe from a drawer.

Oh, fuck! muttered David.

What’s wrong?

You gonna shove that fucking needle in my bum?

He was as good as his word and although David winced as the needle went in, he found the pain a lot less than he’d feared. By the time the doctor returned the area was numb and he was able to remove the splinter swiftly and painlessly before inserting a few small stitches and leaving Ronan to put on a dressing. A few minutes later David was standing, fully-clothed and thanking Ronan for his efforts.

You weren’t as gentle as that when you were caning me, said David.

You didn’t want me to be, countered Ronan.

I guess not, agreed David. So what’s the story about you and the museum. The old dragon who was there this morning said there was no young guy working there and that the place closed at four anyway.

Ronan grinned.

I’m off duty in about an hour. I’ll meet you down at the bar on the lakeside and tell you all about it, okay?

Great. See you later.

The two boys returned to the bar and found a cushioned seat inside where David managed to perch in reasonable comfort, balanced on his right buttock. Ronan duly arrived, insisted on buying them drinks and then explained that his mum was the museum cleaner and normally went in after it closed at four o’clock; but she’d had an emergency dental appointment the previous afternoon so Ronan had agreed to go and do the cleaning for her as he was off duty at the hospital. He’d omitted to lock the outside door while he was working and that’s why David had gained entrance outside opening-hours.

So, said Ronan, swallowing a large measure of his beer, how about this caning. You wanted more, huh, David?

David considered for a while before answering, and the other two, perhaps instinctively realising that he was feeling his way in strange territory, sat in silence and gave him time. David put down his glass and addressed Ronan.

I honestly don’t know exactly what I want, he said candidly. You did something completely unexpected to me with that cane yesterday and there’s a part of me wants to explore those feelings further.

He stopped and Ronan waited, anticipating more; but David remained silent.

And the other part? prompted Ronan.

Scared bloody stiff, confessed David.

I suppose that’s natural; but if you’re up for it, I’d like to have an exploratory session with you, just to see how you respond to the cane used in different ways; pushing your limits a bit maybe, letting you feel the sting and finding out how your body reacts. Trouble is, I can’t do it just now because your bum’s injured and I don’t trust my aim to be accurate enough to be sure I could avoid the stitched bit.

David shuddered.

Fuck, no! I don’t want that bit of my arse caned, thank you very much.

The three young men sat in silence for a minute or two.

So, I guess that leaves you, said Ronan turning to Nicol. Up for a caning?

There was a spluttering noise as Nicol half-choked on a mouthful of his beer and sprayed the table with liquid.

Wh…what? Me? Caning? Not fucking likely!

Why not? asked David. Aren’t you a bit curious to find out what it feels like?

There was an infinitesimal pause.

No, said Nicol.

The other two hadn’t missed the pause.

Not even a tiny little bit of wondering about it? suggested Ronan. The fiery kiss of the cane on your bare skin, the searing stimulation of your behind, the powerful forward-thrust of your body at each stroke? You do want to know, don’t you?

This time the hesitation was much longer.

I don’t think so.

But you’re not certain? So why not try it? There’s nothing to lose and maybe a hell of a lot to gain, said Ronan.

Scared? enquired David sympathetically. So am I; like I would be if I was doing a bungee-jump; but I’d still do it if I got the chance because I want to know what it’s like.

How about coming along to the museum now, suggested Ronan and I can let you have a look at the cane; just to help you decide. It’s your choice though. If you don’t want it, that’s okay; and there’s no shame in it either. How about it?

Nicol looked hard at his feet for several seconds.

Okay, he said. I’ll come and look. I’ve never actually seen a cane for real; but I’m not promising anything mind.

Understood, said Ronan, draining his glass.

Nicol and David did likewise and the three headed off along the road towards the museum. Ronan had to leave the other two for a few minutes while he dashed home to borrow his mother’s key to the building; but he was soon back and was letting them in and closing and locking the door behind them. They made their way through to the schoolroom and Ronan and David let Nicol go in first.

He walked slowly through the room, running fingers lightly over the rows of heavy wooden desks with their inkwells and lifting lids. He slowed further as he approached the teacher’s desk at the front and stopped abruptly when his eyes came to rest on the slim cane hanging from its hook on the side of the desk.

For several seconds he just stared from a distance of a couple of metres and then he went forward and reached out his hand and took the cane from its place. He ran a careful index-finger along its length and then, holding it in both hands, arched it gently. He released the lower end and whipped the rod through the air swiftly. There was a whistling sound. He raised the limber cane above his shoulder and lashed it down hard so that the air whined.

Fuck! he breathed.

Both David and Ronan found themselves powerfully aroused as they watched Nicol discover the potential of the cane, and surreptitiously rubbed their engorged organs. Nicol appeared to have forgotten that they were there. He stroked the cane across his denim-clad rump and then bent over and tried to hit himself but found he could get very little power behind a horizontal stroke. He caressed the cane for a moment or two and then an idea came to him and he bent forward and wielded the cane hard in a vertical line down his right buttock. There was an appreciable crack and Nicol gasped audibly and began to rub furiously at his behind.

Ronan went forward and gently took the cane from Nicol.

Bend over that desk, boy, he ordered in a quiet voice and, as if in a dream, Nicol obeyed at once.

David admired the full curves of his buttocks, beautifully-displayed under the close-fitting denim of his jeans. He slid a hand into his pants and stroked his throbbing cock. Ronan laid the cane across the centre of Nicol’s bottom and tapped it several times. Nicol remained still, body taut, tension in every muscle. There seemed no doubt that he was up for it.

As Ronan raised the cane, the whole room seemed to be waiting in profound silence. David held his breath and his hand ceased to move as it grasped his penis. His eyes leapt from the upraised cane in Ronan’s hand to the expectant buttocks and, even as his gaze flickered back to the rod, Ronan brought it down swiftly. The silence was shattered by a sharp crack as wood and boy were brought into explosive contact. David saw the blue-jeaned bottom move forward and the buttocks quiver as the muscles were clenched hard; and from Nicol’s throat he heard the air expelled in a deep sigh.

Ronan flexed the limber rod a few times, making Nicol wait, before he brought it down a second time across the stretched denim over the youth’s behind. Nicol yelped, leapt upright clutching at his bottom and turning a red face towards Ronan.

Right. That’s enough. I don’t fucking like it and I’m not taking any more.

Okay, replied Ronan equably. It’s your call.

So now it’s your turn, said Nicol, and he reached out his hand to take the cane from Ronan. Give it here.

Ronan hesitated.

I’m waiting, said Nicol quietly, hand still outstretched.

Slowly, as if drawn by some invisible thread attaching him to Nicol, Ronan’s hand moved forward and gave the cane to Nicol’s waiting fingers.

Bend over, ordered Nicol softly and to David’s astonishment Ronan obeyed at once, displaying a firm, taut pair of buttocks, clad in the ubiquitous denim; not as tightly-fitting perhaps as Nicol’s, but nonetheless revealing the full contours of a bottom which in David’s opinion was as cane-worthy as that of Nicol himself.

Six, said Nicol. Don’t move. If you break position, I’ll start again.

Hey! I never made you take……..

Hold your tongue! I’m in charge and you do as you’re fucking told. Get it?

There was a breathless pause.

Got it, replied Ronan in a barely-audible whisper.

David stared. He had never seen Nicol in this kind of mood but something in his dominant mastery of Ronan and the ease with which he appeared to have gained Ronan’s submission, impressed him deeply and his cock rose steeply. As Nicol prepared to begin the caning, David was torn between watching Ronan get it and watching Nicol handing it out.

The cane was raised and brought down, and in the aftermath of the stroke, David heard the snap of rod on bottom, saw the buttocks clench and then heard the sharp intake of breath. Ronan it seemed had felt the stroke. Nicol meted out a second, eliciting a similar response. For the third he aimed at Ronan’s crease and whipped the cane just as it made contact with his body. The savage sting of the stroke made Ronan give a convulsive leap into a semi-upright position as he scrubbed frantically at his injured flesh. Nicol watched him impassively and said nothing.

Ronan continued to massage his rump for several more seconds and then glanced at Nicol; but he just stood quietly arching the cane. Wordlessly, Ronan re-positioned himself.

First stroke, observed Nicol softly. Understand?

Yes.

Yes what?

Yes, sir.

How the hell can he submit to this? David asked himself as he caressed his soaring erection. That’s nine he’ll have had, assuming he doesn’t get out of position again. Why’s he just doing as Nicol tells him; and why does Nicol seem to expect that he’ll be obedient? I don’t get this.

He was jerked sharply from his thoughts by the crack of the cane and then the half-stifled yelp which was forced out of Ronan. Nicol repeated the pattern of the first three, whipping the cane hard across Ronan’s crease at the third; but this time, although Ronan squealed aloud, he stayed down, his buttocks quivering. Nicol meted out two more, higher up on Ronan’s behind, and then lashed the rod in a long diagonal across the tensed bottom for the final stroke. Ronan groaned and squirmed, rising on to his toes, glutes tightly clenched, as he processed the searing pain; and then he slowly relaxed as he mastered himself.

That’s it. Stand up.

Ronan obeyed, gave his behind a careful rub and then extended his right hand wordlessly to Nicol who took and shook it.

That was fucking brilliant, mate, David enthused to Ronan. You must have had the cane before?

Ronan gave him a watery smile and shook his head.

First time, he said. And, boy, does it sting!

I’ll bet. That was a hell of a lot harder than you hit me, and that was sore enough, David confessed. But I don’t understand. Why did you just let him thrash you like that? And, he added turning to Nicol, where did you get the power to be so….so…masterful?

You like it, huh? asked Nicol, smiling and flexing the cane.

Well, yeh, it’s impressive. I, eh, I never really realised that you could……

How would you like me to cane you?

You?

Nicol nodded.

Cane me? With, with that thing? Like you caned Ronan?

Again Nicol nodded.

I dunno. You were hitting bloody hard. I don’t know if I could take that.

You’ll take it if I tell you to take it, David. Won’t you?

I…well…I…..

Something curious seemed to be happening in David’s brain. He had decided to make quite clear that he was not going to be intimidated into submission by Nicol as Ronan had been, but instead the words which he found himself uttering expressed quite the opposite.

I guess, said David, dropping his eyes.

Ready for it, then?

Don’t worry. I’ve got a lot more confidence in my aim than Ronan has in his. I can easily avoid the injured bit. It’s really quite small. You’ve got plenty of unblemished buttock for me to work on.

But I ……

Get your jeans and pants down!

What!

You heard me.

On the fucking bare? Not fucking likely, mate!

David backed away, holding his bottom as if he feared assault immediately.

And if I don’t have your bottom bare, how do you think I’m going to see where not to hit you?

David hesitated as this sank in.

Well, er…I suppose…that is….well okay, I guess you have to be able to see….but, on the fucking bare? That’s sadistic. I’m not taking that. Sorry.

I’m waiting, David.

I’ve told you. I’m not taking it on the bare.

Nicol arched the cane slowly.

The longer you make me wait, the more strokes you’ll get, he warned quietly.

I’m not getting any bloody strokes. Just leave me alone, okay?

You want it.

No, I don’t.

Ronan interjected.

Maybe you should wait until he’s healed and then you can cane his jeans. Getting it through mine was bad enough. On the bare skin must be hellish.

When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, snapped Nicol. Now keep quiet. I’m handling David and I’ll thank you to keep out of it.

Ronan took a couple of strides forward until he was standing almost chest to chest with Nicol, who didn’t budge a centimetre. Ronan was breathing hard but Nicol appeared calm and untroubled.

You’re not my fucking master, snarled Ronan.

No?

No!

I think I am.

Well, you think wrong then, don’t you?

I don’t think so. Like another six of the best, Ronan?

What? Course not! But I’m not your slave.

Go and stand over there and hold your tongue, instructed Nicol, pointing with the cane. One sound out of you and I’ll have your jeans and pants off and you’ll find out just how hard I can hit and how much I can make it burn.

You……..

Hurry up, Ronan.

For several seconds Ronan stared straight into Nicol’s eyes and then slowly he turned away and went and stood where he’d been told. Nicol turned his attention back to David.

Why haven’t you got your jeans down?

You didn’t tell me to…..and anyway, I don’t have to do as you….

Get them down now, David.

I’ve told you; I’m not taking it on the bare; not the way you caned Ronan. I…I couldn’t stand that.

David blinked back tears. Nicol came and took his hand and looked straight into his eyes.

Do you trust me, mate?

What? Well, yeh, of course I trust you. It’s not that. I know I wanted to feel the cane again; and I still do, but not yet and not on my bare arse.

If you trust me, said Nicol quietly, then you’ll know I won’t give you anything you can’t take. Do you trust me?

I……I…..oh, God! Why are you doing this?

Suppose you stop asking questions and get your jeans and pants down for six of the cane? suggested Nicol.

For a long minute, David stood irresolute as he fought an internal battle; and then he made up his mind.

Nothing I can’t take?

That’s right. That doesn’t mean you won’t feel it; for you will; but you’ll take it, Nicol assured him.

Silently, David undid his belt, pushed his denims and pants to his ankles and then bent over the table. Nicol tapped the slim cane across the centre of the youth’s bottom and then drew it back and delivered a firm stroke which elicited a flinch and a sharply-indrawn breath from David. He meted out another slightly lower and then a third at an angle so that the cane avoided the dressing over the stitched cut. The tip of the rod caught David painfully on the crease and he yelped and a hand flew back to scrub fiercely at the stinging flesh.

Hand away, David, said Nicol and David obeyed.

You’re remembering that if you move out of position, I start again, aren’t you? enquired Nicol.

Yes, sir.

David was indeed remembering and was rather pleased with himself that he’d also remembered the requirement to say sir.
The cane was stroked gently across the skin just above the crown of his buttocks and he tensed himself for the stinging stroke which followed a few seconds later. His glutes were squeezed together and his legs trembled slightly. Both Nicol and Ronan could hear his breathing as he steadied himself.

David was determined that he was going to take his six without incurring any penalty. He knew what had happened to Ronan. The strokes he’d taken so far were certainly considerably more painful than those Ronan had given him the previous day; but he admitted to himself that they’d been bearable and a part of him was up for the challenge of the two remaining cane-cuts. Nicol inflicted both at an angle so that they cross-hatched earlier welts and ensured that David experienced a more intense sting. He bucked hard at each and gasped aloud as a searing burn excoriated his bare rump. White-knuckled, his hands gripped the edge of the table desperately.

That’s six, announced Nicol. Well taken.

David felt a glow of achievement and stood up slowly. He felt his way carefully across the tram-lines on his buttocks and uttered a soft fuck under his breath. He then pulled up his pants and jeans and shook Nicol’s hand formally as Ronan had done.

Ronan came across and hugged him and the two stood holding each other tightly for a minute or two, bonded in a shared experience of pain accepted and dealt with. Each was aware that the other was fully aroused.
Nicol hung the cane back on its hook on the end of the teacher’s desk.

Okay, mate, he said to David, a trace of a smile playing round his mouth, it’s time you and me went back to our tent to round things off.

Round things…..?

David felt his face burning as understanding dawned.

But…….

Come! Now!

Looking as if he was sleep-walking, David turned and followed Nicol out of the building. Ronan came behind them, locked up, and wished them good luck before heading off home. Nicol took David’s hand, and in stunned silence David walked, unresisting, back to their campsite. There, the two lads crawled into the tent and Nicol closed the flap.

Nick, said David, rather shyly as he looked at the boy he’d thought that he knew, the boy who had turned out to be rather different, the boy who had caned him hard, who had given him orders which he had obeyed and with whom his relationship had unexpectedly changed.

Huh?

You ever, um, beaten a guy before you caned me and Ronan tonight?

Nicol shook his head.

Why?

You just seemed, you know, good at it. You looked like you knew exactly what you were doing; and the way you took charge and got us both to do as you told us; that was pretty awesome. I still don’t quite understand why we just submitted to you. I mean, I guess I wanted the cane and even though I knew it was going to hurt like hell, I felt okay with letting you do it. You can’t half hit hard, though, he ended in a tone of only slightly-reluctant admiration.

Nicol said nothing and poured hot milk into two mugs before adding spoonsful of coffee and handing one to David.

I’ve imagined doing it often enough, he said at last after lying back and taking a long drink.

What? Caning a guy?

Caning you.

Me!

You’ve got a fantastic pair of buttocks there, mate, just begging to be thrashed; and I must have thrashed them fifty times at least this holiday – in my imagination that is. Being so close to you in this tent and seeing your fantastic bum at close quarters every fucking day, and sometimes seeing it bare; fuck, it was bloody torture, mate. I never dared tell you ’cos I just assumed you’d be appalled at the idea of getting a spanking from me and you’d probably tell me to fuck off and never want to see me again, confessed Nicol.

David stared, open-mouthed at these revelations.

Fuck! And I never even suspected; but you’re not gay!

Oh, yes I am; and I just love the idea of spanking a guy.

Not just the idea, said David, giving his behind a rueful scrub.

Nicol grinned broadly.

True. I just adored the reality. Caning those gorgeously-rounded buttocks of yours was sheer heaven.

How about Ronan’s?

Sure. He’s got a great bottom too and I loved thrashing it. I’d cane the pair of you hard any day of the week; every day of the week if you were up for it; but if I had to choose, I’d go for yours.

Wow!

So, said Nicol, laying a hand on David’s inner thigh and caressing the denim-clad skin, you think we should take care of our balls?

David slid his hands round to his front where his jeans bulged suggestively. He grinned at Nicol and nodded, eyes bright.

Get ’em off then, boy! ordered Nicol.

David at once began to strip and Nicol wasn’t far behind. Shortly after, two naked young men were working shyly at each other’s genitals while indulging in some serious kissing. Semen spurted and was rubbed into bare chests and then more kissing and an extensive manual exploration of a pair of nude bodies followed. Attention began to focus on straining cocks and squirming balls once more and again copious quantities of youthful spunk shot out, accompanied by bass-cries of delight and fulfillment.

Lying back, naked, entwined with Nicol, David sighed deeply.

Nick? You planning to cane me more in future?

You bet I am!

You haven’t got a cane.

I’ll soon get one. Don’t worry; and once your bum’s healed, I’ll be able to really cane the fuck out of you.

David frowned and looked worried.

It’s okay. Trust me. Nothing you can’t take.

But it’ll hurt?

Sure. It’s meant to; and I promise it will. You got any objections, Dave?

David kissed Nicol on the mouth for several seconds and then, as he withdrew his lips, said softly; No; none. I just wanted to be sure.

He squirmed against Nicol’s naked body and sought his mouth again. Nicol’s two hands clasped his friend’s thrashed buttocks tightly, and squeezed them, so that the ridges left by the cane stung. David kissed him with greater passion. As far as he was concerned, a cane had no place in a museum. It didn’t belong to history only; it also belonged to the present and needed to be in constant use. With Nicol handling it, and his own buttocks presented for discipline, he had no doubt that it would be.

Well-caned bottom pulsing pleasantly, David slid into a contented sleep.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot explicit adult fiction by guest author Dave Stewart

It was in the local supermarket that I met Mr Hurd for the first time in many years. At school he had been my mathematics teacher and while we had never fallen out as such, I had felt the wrath of his tawse many, many times. He looked different now. Obviously older, as it was 25 years since I had left school, so I suppose he had to be in his late 60s while I was 41.

“Mr Hurd?” I enquired.

The tall, still authoritative figure eyed me up and down before answering, “Yes, and who are you?”

“David…David Welsh Sir,” and I smiled adding, “Mr Hurd.”

A few moments of thought and then he said, “Ah, Welshy my lad, yes how are you and what have you been doing with yourself?”

We chatted and he insisted that went into the coffee shop for a catch-up. We talked about life and what we had both done and he told me he had retired from teaching and moved down to the same village I now lived in.

I enquired what he did now and he replied that he, “Still sees some old boys now and again.”

Our chat ended and it was two weeks later that we again met in the same store and shared another coffee. Talk this time returned to school days, because in truth we had little else in common, and he made me blush by reminding me of the days he had me stand in front of him for a hand tawsing. “Yes my lad I don’t think the sixers ever did you any harm. Did they?”

Again I could not disagree as I my education had led me on to university, and I now held an accounting post that gave me a good lifestyle, although I was still single.

I found myself drawn to converse further about the tawsings and asked him, “Tell me, did you enjoy thrashing us boys?”

A laugh followed and he admitted to, “A certain amount of pleasure and satisfaction sorting some boys out!” He then startled me by adding, “And you Welshy. I remember giving you a few good tawsings and admiring how you took them. I often wondered since how you would have taken the cane, had it been in use in our part of Scotland.”

I became quite brave at this point and said I no doubt would have handled the cane just as well as the tawse. Mr Hurd asked me how it felt to take a tawsing and we conversed openly about all things to do with beatings and school discipline.

“You should come and visit me some time, Welshy, and I will show you my memorabilia from those days. I kept some of my toys when they were banned.”

I said that I would like that, while wondering why and we arranged for me to visit him the following evening. I found myself thinking all night and then the following day about school discipline. I found myself unusually excited, touching my cock frequently then wanking furiously twice. I was indeed excited, fantasising about being tawsed again, which shocked me.

I visited Mr Hurd that evening and we chatted over some cheese and wine before he went to a drawer and handed me the same tawse he said he had taken to me all these years ago. It was a fearsome dark brown three tailed length of leather and I could see immediately why it had terrified us kids all these years ago. In fact Mr Hurd had a reputation for being a hard and ruthless tawser and six from him was the worst punishment in school.

My mind wandered back to Miss Beaton, my English teacher, a tall lady in her early 20s. I was in love with her, or so I thought, and I fantasised about being tawsed by her. That first time she rumbled me she appeared surprised but the second time she knew exactly what was on my mind. So she sent me to see Mr Hurd! Never again did I try it on with Miss Beaton. Strangely, just then Mr Hurd mentioned her as he poured more wine into my glass.

“Yes Welshy, you had a crush on that delightful lady and a fetish about her punishing you, I believe!”

I blushed and the memories came rushing back. We laughed and chatted further before I asked about his other memorabilia.

“Ah, that is in my study,” he stood up and I followed him automatically. We entered an upstairs room that was indeed full of memorabilia including a traditional cast frame school desk and a teacher’s one.

“I am a bit olde worlde about this room, Welshy, so when we are within it you should call me ‘Sir’, is that clear? Just like you did at school and in the supermarket when we renewed our acquaintance.”

“Eh? Yes, Yes Sir,” I responded.

Sir opened a cupboard and within were an array of canes and tawses. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I was invited to inspect them. As I did so, I heard rustling behind me, and then when Sir came into view he was wearing his old schoolteacher’s gown.

I am, and was, far from stupid and realised immediately that there was more to Sir than first met the eye. And a strange feeling swept over me as I stood holding the tawses and canes in turn.

“Are you impressed young Welshy?” Sir asked.

“Are you still as brave Lad?” asked Sir suddenly. I blushed deeply and lowered my head. “Perhaps not?” he teased.

“Your not meaning, well, meaning Sir that you expect me to take the tawse all these years later?”

Sir replied, “Come, we shall retire downstairs again and chat some more, Welshy.”

Downstairs Mr Hurd, or Sir, explained to me that he knew all those years ago what I was up to with Miss Beaton and wondered if I still held such fantasies. He added that many boys still did and then told me that he had a few old boys who visited him for some school discipline. He concluded by saying, “Perhaps I misjudged you Welshy…or was it that bulge in your shorts that misled me?”

That started a long conversation about those special boys and what they got up to. Sir told me how some boys took the tawse, some the cane and some did lines for him. Some did all three.

I asked Sir what he enjoyed most and he said that he got great pleasure returning to his schoolteacher role and providing the necessary discipline. He was still sat in his gown holding that wicked tawse when the conversation dried up suddenly. All I could say to him was that I was not sure about things.

He smiled rather benignly and said that he understood, and that I should go and think and if I decided it was for me then fine, and if not no more would be said.

As I left, feeling foolish and embarrassed, Sir gave me his phone number and said he hoped to speak soon.

I left knowing I had chickened out but could not get home soon enough to wank off. I decided that I needed to visit again. The following day I phoned Sir and left a message and eagerly awaited his call back. All I said in my message was “Sir it is Welshy and I think I would like to visit again, as discussed.”

The call back came that evening after 10pm and a very straight-talking Sir asked me what I wanted and made me say I wanted to experience the tawse again. Like at school. He also drew from me that I wanted to be caned as well.

“Very well young Welshy!” he retorted. “You will report to my study tomorrow evening at 7pm . When you do you will have written for me 100 lines, which I will inspect. I expect your handwriting to be neat. And no grammatical or spelling mistakes. The lines will be “I deserve to be tawsed and caned for my behaviour.”

The conversation ended and excitedly I got paper and pen and started to write. Now, lines was never my thing and soon the boredom overtook the excitement and it was an hour and a half later when I completed the hated lines. I hated them, just like I had at school.

The following evening I visited Sir at the agreed hour and he opened the door dressed in his gown, shirt, tie and suit trousers.

“Welshy good timekeeping, now come on in. Nervous?” he asked, and he smiled when I said I was very nervous.

He took me to the study and asked for my lines before telling me to wait outside his door until I was called. Stood there, it was school days all over again. Waiting to be punished! I felt that very worrying nervous stomach churning feeling almost all schoolboys have known.

“Get in here now Welshy!” bellowed the voice from within. I entered and was immediately lectured on my behaviour and lines. Spelling and writing issues were pointed out and I began to feel almost intimidated.

“Right then Welshy. Perhaps some hand warming will encourage better writing for your next set of lines!”

I noticed he had referred to my next set. I stood in front of Sir as he withdrew the familiar tawse from within his gown. Without being told to, I raised my hands, placing palm on palm, almost as if this was a normal thing to do. After some instruction as to height and posture, the tawse was raised and descended with a force that made me yell out and rub my hands furiously.

A smiling Sir simply said, “Change palms for me, Welsh.”

I took my six strokes, three on each palm, with a strange feeling of pained excitement. As soon as it was over I started to sport the most difficult of erections to hide. Sir noticed it. He smiled but said nothing.

Sir replaced the tawse in his gown as he took it off, placing it over the chair, and rolled his sleeves up. He then went to the cupboard and took his time selecting a cane. He swished and flexed several in the process, maybe for effect, before picking a wicked looking crook-handled, swishy cane.

“Now then Welsh. I want your trousers lowered and you bent over that desk.”

I did as instructed and felt grateful for the thin covering of my underpants. Standing behind me, Sir flexed the cane then spoke with authority, “So Welsh, your first taste of the cane. I expect you to remain over the desk. If you stand, utter profanities or reach behind I shall give that stroke again and add an extra penalty one. Boys at school took this in their stride, so I expect an adult lad like you to do the same. Do you understand?”

I very nervously spluttered out “Yes Sir” and inwardly wondered what it was that had encouraged me into this situation. I felt his hands on my backside and then, to my horror, the pants were dragged down. I felt the tentative tap of the cane on my bare flesh.

Suddenly, as I toyed with my own thoughts about what it would feel like, the first cane stroke whistled down. I shot up in response to the pain, bolt upright, and shouted “FUCK ME!”

Sir growled, “Perhaps later lad, but now we’ll start again and add another. YOU WILL LEARN TO BEHAVE IN MY CLASS!”

The second cut deep. I bit my lip and held on with stoic determination. The third stroke almost made me stand up again and the fourth was a real burner. The next two strokes made me hold on for grim death and it was all I could do not to do anything except grunt loudly.

I was keeping count and knew I had taken six. There were two more to come and I was determined not to incur more. I wondered to myself why I didn’t just stand up and say I wouldn’t take any more. Just then the next stroke whistled down followed swiftly by a burning final stroke. My eighth.

“Stand and turn around Welsh!” I was instructed. I was told to stand in the corner. I stood there contemplating what had just happened and soon my softened penis grew embarrassingly.

When Sir allowed me come out of the corner, I tried to use my hands to conceal my erection from him. I was mortified but Sir smiled. He came towards me. Without any resistance from me, he held my cock and slowly started to wank me. Despite or perhaps because of my burning hands and bottom, I soon exploded into the tissue he had handy. I was left to clean up and dress.

Arriving back downstairs we discussed openly what had happened and I declared that it was more painful than I had expected. However, I couldn’t deny that my rock hard cock betrayed my excitement.

“Any time you wish some more Welshy then all you need do is write me some lines, and then come and see me.”

It felt strange thanking the man responsible for my discomfort as I left and even stranger that as soon as I sat in the car I was planning my next tutorial.

I was about to undertake what might be termed “adult further education.”

Erotica by Rod Cayenne

Their tongues had been loosened by a few bevvies. The inhibitions were gone. The guards were down. They were surfing the net together, looking at all sorts of things. Bronzed babes in bikinis, blondes and brunettes.

“Don’t beat yourself up, mate. Most men of our age are in the same boat. We’ve been perverted by the internet. Or maybe it’s our true selves revealing themselves. I’ve come to like rubber and leather myself.”

“Really? You’re very brave sharing that with me.”

“No mate, not brave. I really just don’t care, at my age.”

“OK. Maybe I should be just as honest with you. Take a look at this then. Wait just a minute while I call it up. That’s it. It’s a spanking website I run.”

“Gosh! You run that? It’s very professional-looking. Whoa! That’s well kinky mate. Let me make a note of the link.”

“It gets a lot of hits. Far more than my non-sexual aviation site.”

“Well, maybe that one doesn’t get many hits because it’s crap!”

“Cheers, mate!”

“Looks cool, your spanking site. Do you get a lot of feedback? Any hookups?”

“Yes and yes. That’s what it’s all about really.”

“Cool!”

“Yeah, I can’t complain. I get my rocks off with lots of spanking, and if I’m lucky a shag, too.”

“Naughty boy!”

“You could say that.”

“I just did. Tell me more.”

“OK, OK. I do it with men and women. Sometimes I dish it out, other times I cop it.”

“So let me get this right. You’re a bisexual masochist cum sadist?”

“Well I hate labels but that just about sums it up.”

“Wow! Well cool. So you fuck with men too?”

“Oh yeah. It’s good.”

“Cool.”

“You wouldn’t have said that a few years ago.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’re all more broad-minded these days, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I guess so. Alright! Let me throw caution to the wind. I’ve got a rubber spanking paddle and a leather strap. Do you want to try them?”

“Errrr.”

“Of course, to get the real benefit, you need to feel them on your bared arse.”

“Yes, I thought you might say that. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. Go on then, but it must be our secret!”

“We’ve always been good at secrets, mate.”

“Too true. Where do you want me then?”

“Upstairs. In the bedroom.”

“OK. But no fucking, OK?”

“Don’t worry mate. The strap and paddle will fuck you enough!”

“I just know I’m going to regret this.”

And he did, as he got a dozen whacks of the rubber paddle. It burnt like hell. He rubbed his sore, sore arse. Even so, there was a nice warm glow and it had been exciting.

“How was that then?”

“Shit, it was hard. Oww! Did you have to do it so hard, mate?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have thanked me if I’d just tapped you.”

“No I suppose not.”

“Now, are you ready for another dozen? With the leather?”

“Oh shit, I’d forgotten about that. Can I see it first please?”

“Yep. Here it is. Finest English saddlery, look at the beautiful stitching, and just smell the leather.”

“Mmmmm, it does smell very nice. Very sexy! I’ll have to get one myself. OK, a dozen. Make them hard ones, too.”

Somewhat surprised by his friend’s request, nonetheless he lashed the leather down hard. It made a beautiful noise and a gorgeous red imprint on the hairy cheeks before him.

“Arrrgh!” his friend cried, truly startled. As the leathering progressed, his victim gradually realised that the leather was not quite as punishing as the rubber paddle. It was still pretty bad though. With a final crack of the leather, it was all over.

“Whew! You really put me through my paces there mate. I quite enjoyed it though, in a funny kind of way!”

“Aha! We’ll make a spanko of you yet!”

“Oh I don’t know. I think I’ve had enough, anyway. Have you got a cane, by the way?”

“A cane?”

“Yes, a cane. Like at school. A school cane.”

Well, the wardrobe wasn’t quite full of canes, but there were a lot there. Maybe a dozen or so. Carefully, a prime example was chosen.

“Do you want to try it then? I should warn you it can be a bit overwhelming!”

“Yes, I’d better, as I’ve really asked for it haven’t I?”

“Yes you have. I don’t know that you could stand a dozen of this on top of what you’ve had already, though. Maybe just six of the best?”

“Yes, I’ve always wondered what it was like. I was much too much of a goody at school to ever find out.”

“Really? You were lucky, then. I got it a lot. OK, bend over the bed again. Try and keep still, it won’t be easy for you, but do try.”

“Sure will. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

Only a cane virgin would come up with a naive question like that. Sure enough, by the third stroke, our victim had leapt up, clutching his sore arse with both of his hands as the fire of the cane’s caress hit home.

“Holy shit man! That fucking hurts.”

“I did warn you, mate. Now, that’s enough of that language. One penalty stroke for swearing and another for leaping up. You must learn to behave!”

Suddenly his mate sounded just like an evil old teacher. Slowly, the submissive posture was resumed. The hairy, firm arse wiggled a little as the next stroke was lined up.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three rapid, burning strokes followed.

“Stay down! Two penalty strokes to come!”

CRACK! CRACK!

“Oh mate! Wow! That thing’s a real beast. And you’ve got a whole wardrobe full of them!”

“Ha, yes. That was by no means the worst of them! That was a medium strength. Nice. Nice crook handle, too. One of my favourites. Here, you hold it for a minute.”

His mate duly held the cane in his hands. He’d half expected it to be red hot. But, it wasn’t. In more ways than one, it was a cool item. He flexed the cane and admired its lithe beauty. He gazed at his mate, too. He listened intently.

“OK now. You did well there, mate. So no fuck, as requested. But how about a quick wank or two? Then I can write the whole story up for my website.”

“Sounds great. Maybe we can do this regularly, mate?”

“Of course we can. We’re mates aren’t we?”

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Warning: Contains adult material. Forbidden to those under the age of 18.

This blog is intended for adults only. All listed sites, pictures displayed or referred to in this blog feature consenting adult models and players over the age of 18. All stories and artwork featured are fiction only and refer to adults in role play. This blog is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.

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The Cane

Many people use the rattan cane in their adult relationships. Sometimes this is for domestic discipline. Others use it to spice up their sex lives. Some just like recreating experiences from long ago. You will find fictional stories here which explore these themes. All the characters are aged 18 or over.

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All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Thought for the moment

"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey" - Kenji Miyazawa, author and poet (1896-1933)

Thought for another moment

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what" - Harper Lee, author (1926-2016)

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Dedicated to Jonathan

This site is dedicated to the memory of Jonathan (aka jaybee300), friend, muse, gentleman and master, 1954-2014, R.I.P.